An Untempered Schism
by Jarmatus
Summary: Who is the man known as the Doctor, and why has he been reawakened from his long slumber?
1. Chapter 1

The sound of boots. Not overly dramatic in its own right, but constant. Humans have always worn jackboots and always will, for one reason or another: mostly because they look, and sound, cool. Right now, judging by sound, there's at least a platoon of jackbooted people marching down a linoleum-floored corridor somewhere … well, it's hard to tell, but there are jackbooted people there, so it's probably somewhere that's important in some respect.

A door opens with a squeak of huge, old hinges, a squeal of protest, and the _whp_ of a hermetic seal being broken. Then the noise of a wince comes, and bitching about cold. Someone, maybe a lot of people, are entering a freezing space. The boots fade just a little, and the tone of their fall changes.

There is the murmur of a short, curt conversation between two people, in clipped, military tones, then a series of beeps as of a sequence of numbers being entered into a keypad, which in fact is exactly what it is. The beeping goes on for quite some time, a total of some thirty-two beeps in all – a thirty-two bit code. Then there is a fluctuating scratching sound and the _sproing_ of resonating metal: something being turned one hundred and eighty degrees, then pulled out.

There is another _whp_ of a seal being broken.

And then there is the hiss of air escaping.

And then a man breathes after a long time of not doing so, and begins to cough.

When he recovers his breath, he waits for a few moments. "Who the hell are you?" His voice is deep, quite calm despite his words, and has a ring of authority to it. Also a distinct Australian accent, from when accents mattered.

"Confirm, please," the military tone comes, much clearer. "You are known as the Doctor?"

"Correct," the man – the Doctor – says. "Why am I here?"

"Because, Doctor," the soldier says, "your presence is required once more."


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor feels his presence is required once more.

The problem is, he can't, for the life of him, say why – and he can't, for the life of him, think of a time that he's ever not been able to say why he feels something. Sure, half the time what he tells himself and others is a bending of the truth, and to be honest most of the other half is just blatant lies, but this is the first time in his long, long life he can remember not coming up with anything.

And that troubles him.

So he's relaxing. In the Zero Room. Yeah, sure, so it's not meant to be used outside times of difficult regeneration, so what. This is his TARDIS and he can do what he likes with it – it's not like there's anyone to stop him, and at that his thoughts take a melancholy turn, roving back over history.

Gallifrey is gone; the Time War saw to that. He runs over it again in his mind, unable to forget: the battle at the Gates of Elysium, the downfall of the Nestene Consciousness, the Stand on the Shield from which the Master ran so far and so long, the last burning of Gallifrey when the Cruciform tumbled from the sky … yes, Gallifrey is gone.

And yet … No.

The thing is, the Doctor knows that Gallifrey is gone.

Yet, in the very back of his mind, he's quite sure he can hear the organic throb of a stable rift. The Doctor has always had an aptitude for finding such things: while the Master was limited to a single throb in his head, the Doctor has prided himself for many years on being able to, he's said, hear the ebb and flow of the time vortex.

This is a man who can see every ripple in the depthless pool of Time.

And right now, it's like someone's skipping stones across it.

A stable rift is the kind of technology that only a select few races have ever had, and the Time Lords were the most prominent among them. Even now, when they're just faded footnotes to books of galactic legend, the stable rift is an icon of the Time Lords: the people who bent Time to their will. And even now, so many years after the Last Great Time War, and perhaps because of it, nobody except the Daleks would debase that icon.

And it's not the Daleks. The Doctor would know if it was the Daleks – he knows their signs, their signature, the way they act, and a subtle organic throb is not it.

So the question is, if the throb is not of Dalek origin …

"… Where is it coming from?" he asks the ceiling. His accent. Estuary English to the core.

And right now, an old, old Time Lord's grasp on the niceties of temporal physics is about as good as that of your average Englishman on the street. Joe Bloggs, J. Random Hacker, John Smith …

The problem is as clear as estuarial mud.

So the Doctor devotes all of his formidable mind to considering it once more.


	3. Chapter 3

"So," says the man known as the Doctor, "why am I here?"

"You know that as well as I do," says the young female military officer across the desk from him. She looks far too serious for her age, and this Doctor, a young, bespectacled, slightly Asian-looking man in navy blue and black, looks far too light-hearted for his.

"Yes, I do, I suppose," he says petulantly, "but I left instructions. I left very specific instructions that I was only to be revived if _he_ turned up. _Very_ specific–"

"This may be the only chance you will ever have," the young lieutenant interrupts abruptly.

"The only chance I will ever have," the Doctor repeats, "to do what?"

"To meet him."

"Listen, miss," the Doctor says, leaning forward across the desk, "Miss … what was your name again?"

"_Lieutenant_ Bambera," she says sharply. "Winifred Bambera."

The Doctor snorts. "Winifred Bambera. What a coincidence. If you believe in such things. Anyway, Miss Bambera–"

"_Lieutenant_," she repeats firmly.

"Miss Bambera," he says, just as firmly, "what year is it now?"

"Common year twenty-two hundred nine," she replies.

He winces. "Hefty. Two hundred years. Moving on, though," he holds up a finger, "I have enough money to sue you into oblivion for violating the law the Legislature passed to enforce my last will and testament, and then I can go back and wait another million millennia for him if I have to. Does it look like I'm feeling it?"

"You know," Lieutenant Bambera says reproachfully, "you're nothing like him at all. You wouldn't impress him, you know, if he turned up."

The Doctor winks. "I do my best."

"However," she says, haughty now, "a billion years simply will not help you. Doctor, if you cooperate with us, you can have everything you want. You can cap off your research, and you can meet him, and you can say that you were complete if and when you die."

"Lieutenant Bambera," the Doctor says seriously, "I don't intend to die."

"You take my point," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Indeed," he replies. "So explain to me why you suddenly want to help me."

So she explains.

First he looks bored.

Then he looks interested.

Then his eyes go wide.

Then he falls off his chair in shock, at which point the serious atmosphere of the meeting is somewhat disrupted.

"So, what you're saying," he says, once he's regained control, "is that, if I do what you propose …"

"The implications could be enormous," she says gravely. "You would have advanced the world unimaginably. More to the point, you would have impressed him. You would meet him. The terms of your self-desuspension contract would have been fulfilled, and, Doctor … everyone would have won."

"You don't say," he mutters, still greatly surprised. Suddenly, he smiles. "I'll do it. Thank you, Lieutenant Bambera. Thank you so much. This is the opportunity of a very long lifetime."

"Glad to be of service," she says, smiling back.


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor does not move.

His eyes, however, snap open.

That sound is familiar. That sound is the sound of a bell.

The Cloister Bell.

And that bell only ever rings in the event of an emergency.

In a flash, he is on his feet, and then he is sprinting out of the Zero Room. He makes it to the console room in record time … everything is lit up red. Which is very ugly against the dirty orange of the TARDIS walls.

It's nice of the Ship to tell him things by offending his sense of decency, but now is not the time.

"What's the problem, old girl?" he pants.

The screen on its rotating joint prints up two words: BLEED-IN.

The Doctor's eyes widen in shock.

"Detail?" he says.

REFINING RESOLUTION OF BLEED-IN LOCATOR NOW.

He waits, almost dancing on the deck in impatience. Finally, the results flash up.

HUMANIAN ERA, COMMON YEAR 2209.

It starts to print LOCATION: MUTTER'S SPIRAL but then starts printing SOL but then gives up and prints SOL 3.

_Oh no. Not Earth. The single one tiny inconsequential planet where I do _not_ need a bleed-in is Earth._

"How bad is it?" he asks, not wanting to hear the answer.

SEVERE.

The highest level: overwriting history or deleting an entire timeline.

So, not good.

_So not good_.

He hisses through his teeth, surveying the data the TARDIS throws up in Gallifreyan script … The Moment was the last severe paradox. The Moment he could have used to end the Time War, and still might yet. Severe paradoxes are things that offend the universe, that outrageous things would find unsustainably outrageous, that would drive one mad just from looking at the uncensored timeline graph.

And there's one happening on Earth, right now.

"How far can you refine the resolution, Ship?"

NOT FAR, the TARDIS replies. SIX MONTHS CLOSEST POSSIBLE PROXIMITY.

He winces, but quickly overcomes his annoyance. "That'll do."

QUERY PURPOSE OF PREVIOUS QUERY?

"I'm going in," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes some effort for the Doctor to get out of the TARDIS through what seems to be a particularly hard patch of air. "I'm touched, old girl," he mutters, shoving his way out with a cleverly applied shoulder, "but now is really not the time."

Not that he's glad to be outside, once he gets there.

Firstly, it's cold. It's _damn_ cold. Bitingly so, even through his lengthy coat. Most likely early winter, aaand … he licks a finger and holds it up. Yep, welcome to Britain. Welcome back to Britain, old chap, welcome home, he thinks sardonically.

The TARDIS is in a convenient clearing. It's on a road, north-south if he has his stars right: inconvenient in that he has to desync the Ship, convenient in that roads generally lead somewhere, and the world is decent enough to provide him with an ominous glow in the north. He sets out, his sneakers scraping on the unsealed road.

As he goes, he sniffs at the air. He's uncomfortably aware that this is currently a severe paradox zone, and as much as he doesn't want to think about it, he has to know what he's walking into. Unfortunately, no clues come along on the air: no obvious pollution, no dropping off of vegetation scent, nothing like that, which is annoying. He keeps walking.

So it's pure chance when he comes upon a car.

It's definitely a car. It's a glossy plastic seed-pod balanced on three spheres, but there's just a certain thing that says _car_ to the Doctor, and this has it. The light-blobs glowing softly under the forward nose also suggest it.

He looks it over with the aid of the sonic screwdriver. A maker's plate just above knee level on this side – a Ford Inventif, 2198 model, so about ten years old, middle of the range. A mist of almost _sweat_ around a grille in the aft end … water … water water water … hydrogen power? Could be. Cheap old hydrogen-powered car … oh! Student! Yes! And if there's a registration plate, it'll confirm that, should be–

"STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR."_ Chk-chk_.

The Doctor sourly reflects on how often he seems to be getting click-helloes these days, and carefully stands up. As he comes up to his not inconsiderable full height, he slowly turns, to face a young, scared-looking redhead pointing a gun at him.

"Oh, hello," he says quietly, smiling cautiously.

"Who the hell are you?" she hisses.

"Er … the Doctor," he says.

"_Funny_. Doctor _who_?" she retorts.

"… Doctor nobody," he says, tilting his head at her slightly. "Just … the Doctor."

"What kind of doctor?" she hisses back at him. She seems a little calmer, though.

"Doctor of everything," he says, cautiously widening his smile.

"Mm," she says, still obviously on edge. "And what is a man with that much time and money doing sitting here hotwiring a car?"

It takes a split second to hit the Doctor. Then he looks horrified. "No, no, no, no, no, you've got it all wrong! I'm doing nothing of the sort. Um …"

She snorts. "Right. Not that it matters … Empty your pockets."

"Oh," he says reluctantly, but she waves the gun and he complies, relieving his pockets of several small leather books, a fairly stylish pen, a folded raincoat and a banana skin. Then he relieves himself of the coat, which she looks through, still drawing a bead on him, watching him out of the corner of her eye. Another banana skin and a guidebook to Santraginus V.

"The tools of an invader, I'm sure," he says sardonically. "Look, let's pass over why I'm here, but it's not to hotwire your car, I swear."

She stares at him for a moment, assessing him, then lowers the gun, chortling to herself. "I guess. I think you'd be too stupid to hotwire a car anyway."

"Oi," he retorts, affronted.

"Come on," she says, now starting to laugh in earnest. "You're in a forest, in Wales, in the middle of the night, near a town of frankly fairly ill repute, and you didn't even bring a gun."

"Well," he says, "I don't like guns …" Now he beams manically. "… But thank you for proving my point for me, no, I didn't bring a gun. I'm completely innocent. Like a lamb," he hesitates, "ooh, probably not a good analogy. Lambs get slaughtered."

She lowers the gun. "Not tonight. And I'm fairly sure," she nods at the sonic screwdriver, "your little pen there isn't a brilliant lockpick."

"Oh, it could be," he says, shrugging, "but not right now. Now then, I'm the Doctor, who would you be?"

"Oh …" she says, with a small smile. "Forgetting my manners. Rina. Rina Taylor. Of the Taylors of Sakala?" she prompts hopefully. The name sounds fairly familiar, but the Doctor can't place it.

"No idea," he says blithely.

"Yeah, I get that a lot," she confides. "Outside of the Commonwealth, nobody knows who we are."

"I knew a commonwealth once, charming place," the Doctor confides right back. "Probably not your Commonwealth, though. So, Rina Taylor, you're from the Commonwealth, and you run into a lot of people who aren't from the Commonwealth, so we're not in the Commonwealth … well, probably not … so why are you here? And what's this town of ill repute?"

So she tells him.


	6. Chapter 6

(**A/N:** Sorry about the long delay.)

Something is taking shape, over not too many hills and not too far away, and on the drive to Mynydd Creigiog, Rina is nice enough to fill the Doctor in on what it is.

Well, sort of fill him in, incompletely.

There has been construction here for six months. This part of Wales – here and now – is an industrial wasteland: built, Rina informs the Doctor, to fuel and support the Earth effort against the Commonwealther Rebellion of 2189. The Doctor doesn't remember any such rebellion, but nods along anyway.

"Nobody comes here," she explains, "it's not approved for anything except Royal Navy work. This entire zone is considered Keter-class." Again, no idea on the Doctor's part, but he nods and _mmm_s appreciatively. "It's totally uninhabited." An agglomeration of yellow lights appears in the distance.

"Well," Rina finishes, "not totally." She pulls a sharp left and a sharp right, then accelerates through a long curve. "Welcome, mysterious Doctor, to the small, hard-working town of Mynydd Creigiog."

"I'll consider myself welcomed," he replies, running a hand through his hair, adopting his trademark grin as the town draws quickly closer.

Rina pulls to a sharp stop at a gate just outside the town. The Doctor gets a sinking feeling as a helmeted man in leather – very Slab on closer inspection – marches up to Rina's door. "ID," his vocoded voice says sternly through the window.

"Rina, daughter of Ryana, house of Taylor," Rina says. She's been through this before, apparently.

"Voiceprint match," the guard replies. "And guest?"

The Doctor leans across. "The Doctor," he says with a big smile. Rina shoots him a look.

"And guest?" the guard repeats without a hint of changed inflection.

"Do you have to?" the Doctor complains. "Very well then. John. Son of … Sidney. House of, um, Smith. Will that do, then?"

"Name's not on file," the guard says with a slight hint of puzzlement.

Rina throws up her hands. "Bill, it's eleven bloody o'clock, it's late, I've got a request on file here straight from Bambera, countersigned by the big man himself," she pulls a sheaf of papers out of the glove compartment, whacking the Doctor accidentally across the knees in the process, muttering an apology, and holds it up for Bill. "I couldn't bloody care less whether Doctor Smith's name or face or bloody footprint is on file or not. Just let me in, will you?"

"Look, really, if it's too much trouble," the Doctor cuts in, looking up at Bill.

"No, no," Bill says, still sounding slightly puzzled. "Sorry, just …" He pauses for a moment, then steps back. "Nah, you're fine. Go on in." The gate rises up and the car rolls silently through.

"That's nice of you," the Doctor says, slightly confused, once they're out of earshot of the guard post (Rina's window is still open). "Putting a word in for me like that."

Rina snorts. "What was I going to do? Leave you out in the woods … Bill knows me, anyway." She looks to him. "By the way, Doctor Smith, it's nice to know you have a name."

The Doctor simply smiles in a subtle way as the car pulls up to the footpath, and Rina switches topics. "Anyway. Welcome to the charming labourers' hideout of Mynydd Creigiog, where I, by the way, am doing most of the work."

"How so?" the Doctor says, intrigued.

"Sole medic," she says, chuckling. "I have to keep a lot of big strong dumb-as-rocks men from hurting themselves. It gets entertaining … What did you say your doctorate was in?"

"Well, actually," the Doctor says, gradually getting his big grin back, "I didn't say it was in anything."

"So I'm asking you," Rina says, a little bit serious, still smiling.

"Well," the Doctor says, pausing to think, "physics, mostly. Practical physics. Well … that and a bit of history." It's true enough, he figures. Anyway, if he said he had a medical doctorate, he'd never get out of here.

So Rina laughs, slightly annoyed, mostly good-natured. "Another one! God, you're … what … I think you're the tenth doctor–"

He freezes for a moment.

"–we've had through here in the past month," she continues, oblivious. He relaxes. "Excepting the obvious." He wonders who 'the obvious' is but decides not to ask. "The last three got their letters in biol, then there was an economicist before that, and a pair of musicians, and I think before that three more physicists, so you're in decent company."

The Doctor chuckles. "Economists and biologists and musicians, oh my!" Then he suddenly becomes intrigued. "Got this coat from a musician, nice, innit … and I do know a few economists, oh dear … And biologists, well, that's a whole other thing entirely … but actually, that's a pretty diverse field. What's going on, any idea?"

"We-ell," Rina says, considering the situation. "Wouldn't know much about the biologists, but the musicians are probably there to distract brass from the bill … and the economists are probably there to justify the overall massive budget PAIR is running on–"

"And PAIR is?" the Doctor says.

Rina gives him a look. "Oh, come off it. Anyone who doesn't live in Outer Mongolia knows of PAIR, where have you been?"

"I'm sort of a hermit," the Doctor confesses.

"Mm," Rina says, giving him a sceptical look. "A hermit with friends?"

The Doctor mms right back at her. "Hermits United," he says, deadpan. "We get together, oh, about every ten years, swap stories about caves. It's good fun. – For a hermit."

Rina stares at him for a moment and bursts out laughing. "Inspiring stuff. Anyway, so. For the benefit of the travelling doctor, PAIR is the Panel on … um … something or other … that's it, interstices." The Doctor's ears prick up, as Rina continues, "Artificial Interstice Research. United Nations thing, based out of New York, does all its work here."

Unfortunately, the Doctor stopped listening at 'interstice'. He gets his grin back again. "Interstice research, eh? And that's what exactly?"

"Oh dear," Rina groans, apparently resigning herself to a long explanation. "Look, this is the sort of thing that really doesn't need to be discussed over anything less than a cup of C-Five, and I know just the man to do a really good cup of C-Five." She thumbs out the window. "Hence the takeaway." 'The takeaway' is a brightly lit hole in the wall with a tacky stone frontage.

The Doctor's grin widens. "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about," he says happily.

"Hermit, right," Rina replies. "C-Five. It's coffee, but better. And anyway, I know the fellow who runs the place. Old soldier, name of Fred because we do rather like our monosyllables here. You two, you'd get along like a house on fire."

"Good to know," the Doctor says, opening his door and bouncing out like he's on springs. "Unto the breach, then?"


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor bumps his head on the frontage … The fashion seems to be what he remembers of 2209: the entire shop looks to be a dome of engineered coral, with no visible light sources. The area's maybe eight by eight metres but still manages to fit in several tables and a mahogany-topped bar lined with impressionist metal swivel stools.

An old man is polishing the bar top. Some things never change.

At the sound of their footfalls, he looks up. The Doctor would estimate the man is in his eighties – even for 2209, when the idiosyncrasies of the human life cycle are a thing of the past, the old fellow is still in wonderful shape: a bit short, but very fit, shaved head, a few scars but nothing major. The Doctor feels a bit envious, really, remembering various incarnations: _I never looked that good_.

"Ree," the old barkeep says, by way of greeting Rina. "Who's your new friend, eh?" He gives the Doctor a polite if not especially warm smile.

Rina rolls her eyes. "Fred, this is John Smith. Doctor John Smith."

Fred looks at the Doctor. "A pleasure, sir, and what's your business here?" His smile remains a little on edge.

"Just passing through," the Doctor says, slightly confused.

Again, Rina rolls her eyes. "God … You're always so," she wiggles a hand, "confrontational, old mate. Listen, Doctor Smith is a _physicist_." She leans forward conspiratorially to say 'physicist' under her breath.

Fred brightens immediately. "A physicist, you say? Good lord, just what we needed!" With that befuddling statement, he turns to a cupboard behind the bar and begins to pull out some ornate glassware.

The Doctor leans in towards Rina. "Hang on, I thought you said you'd had three so far," he mutters at her. "And what's so great about physicists anyway?"

Rina mutters to herself for a moment. "Look," she replies finally, in the same hushed tone, "it'll all take too long to explain–" She's interrupted as Fred ceremoniously puts down a bottle and a pair of wine glasses on the bar. The Doctor recognises the label–

"'99 Dom," Fred says hopefully. "Her Majesty's stock, before … you know." He shares a look with Rina, and then they both glance at the Doctor expectantly.

"Look, I'm honoured, really," he says, smiling, putting his hands up, "but I–"

Fred looks at him.

"–well then," he finishes lamely, sensing he can't get out of this gracefully.

"Lay off, Fred," Rina, however, says genially, for which the Doctor is grateful. "He doesn't even know why you're offering him champagne yet." Fred looks crestfallen, and makes various complaining noises, but Rina remains firm. "One latte-five– two?" She looks at the Doctor, who waves a hand no.

"Fine then," Fred says. "One latte-five for the lady." He puts away the glassware shakes a finger at the Doctor. "Doctor Smith, sir, the next time you come around here–"

"I'll be sure to take you up on the offer," the Doctor smiles. Fred turns to attend some sort of large machine, apparently mollified, and Rina pulls up a chair at one of the tables. The Doctor follows suit.

Rina leans forward, and so does the Doctor. "So, travelling hermit doctor–"

"–just Doctor, the others are implied–"

"–so, Doctor. Welcome," she waves an arm at the door hole and the town beyond it, "to Mynydd Creigiog. Meanest town in mid-Wales."

"Looks pretty peaceful to me," he says, slightly confused.

"The reputation's mostly undeserved," she admits. "We're a prefab town, though, mostly labour and support staff, so things do get a little … wacky sometimes. D'you see, we're working on the Shed."

"Nope, don't see," he says. "The Shed?"

"The Shed," she replies, nodding gravely. "Officially, His Imperial Majesty's Naval Base _Break_, which is … amusing … given that Newtown's about a stone's throw over that way." The Doctor nods wisely. "Anyway, the Shed. Massive construction project, commissioned by the Court in … 2205, I think, I'm not entirely clear. And I don't just mean massive," she clarifies, "I mean amazingly, ridiculously huge. Half a kilometre tall, several to a side."

Even the Doctor is impressed. "Pretty huge," he says by way of indicating this, and offers, "Don't suppose it's a garden shed, then?"

She snorts. "No. God, hermit very much so … Anyway, so. It's complex. Very complex. Hence the satellite town and the support staff. I'm not a real medic, actually," she confides, "I handle the robots, and believe me, they're _damn_ busy."

"Sounds fun." The Doctor smiles. "Any idea what goes in the Shed?"

Rina seems to deflate. "Actually," she says, a bit irritated, "no."

The Doctor is about to _mm_ sympathetically, but is interrupted. By a crack of thunder. And rain begins to patter on the roof. "Ah, Great Britain," he says happily. "Land of fish and chips and rain."

"Ooh, you're buggered now, kiddies," Fred cackles, still struggling with his machine. "Rina, you'd better go check your boot, you know what that car is like."

"Oh, bloody–" Rina exclaims, makes apologising noises, and dashes out of the door.

Or tries to. There is a _woop_ and a thud and a lot of exclaiming and then a lot of apologising, people pick themselves up, Rina vanishes at a slightly more leisurely rate of speed, and a crowd begins to pour into the bar, groaning and mumbling and otherwise indicating their displeasure as they come out of the rain.

"And it's not just you anymore," Fred continues gleefully for the Doctor's benefit, back still turned, "it's all of this lot, too."


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor observes for a while. He supposes it's something he's good at – nine hundred years of (in the main) solitude have taught him to appreciate people.

Meanwhile, he thinks. He's within six months of a paradox the exact size of Belgium … Paradoxes don't just naturally form, because of the way time is constructed. It's like you don't have a cold without catching it – something had to put the paradox there. Given that the paradox is _here_, on Earth, the most likely culprit is this lot.

And the Doctor would bet the Shed has something to do with it. He doesn't recall anything like it, and he recalls a lot of things – frankly, that building shouldn't exist. He'd further bet that whatever it is that the Shed has to do with the paradox, it's a big thing, because that is a _big_ building. Long way down the road to the chemist, just peanuts to the Shed, etc. (Arthur Dent, now there was a nice man).

The point being, even in 2209 – or at least as the Doctor remembers it – you _do not_ build buildings like that without using them for something of equal grandeur, and the TARDIS has brought him here … The Shed is, or will be, or even has been (hopefully not, though) the epicentre of this thing. It's big enough to fit a Dalek temporal extinction device, or a salvaged cosmic lacer, or a …

_No. That shouldn't be possible._

The Doctor's reverie is broken by a dramatic tap on the shoulder. He turns to look – Rina. She seems apologetic. "Look, I'm sorry, I've had an urgent call-out, I hate to leave you here like this, but I really must go."

He musters a smile. "Naaah," he says brightly, "that's fine."

She looks at him for a second, nods, and turns to go.

He calls, "Rina?"

She turns.

"Have fun," he says, and turns back to the bar. "So, Fred."

Fred appears, on cue, holding the bottle and looking hopeful. The Doctor, however, waves away the proffered drink, and Fred's face sinks again. It's quite heartbreaking really. Well, sort of.

"Fred," the Doctor says, leaning forward, "I want you to tell me everything you can about the Shed."

Fred leans on the bar too, on his elbow, thinking. "Well. Not much to say, really. Massive," he waggles a hand, uncertain, "pyramid thingy." The Doctor nods, egging him on. "Geometry's never really been my thing," Fred admits. "So it's a big old shed, with several major compartments … a large hall? There's a hall … somewhere inside," again, he waggles. "Resource and labour draw from all over the Empire! Even the Commonwealth too! You know Rina?" he says, suddenly quiet.

"Mm hm," the Doctor replies, as quietly.

"She's from the Commonwealth. Now," Fred adds quickly, "I don't hold that against her, she's a charming girl, really wonderful, excellent at her job."

"I'm sure you don't," the Doctor says amiably. "The Shed?"

"Oh, right," Fred says, coming back with a snap. "Big ol shed, you know, big ol hall inside. Massive stone sculpture, too," he says reflectively. "Very un-naval. It's of one of them wooden figure things that sculptors use, you know the bendy things …" Again, he waggles a hand, and the Doctor nods. "Good, good. Yes, so we call that the Jelly Baby, because frankly, it's way too fat for an artists' model. More like the Michelin Man really." He chuckles an old man's chuckle.

"'Would you like a jelly baby?'" the Doctor mutters, almost to himself.

"Mm?" Fred prompts.

"Nothing, nothing," the Doctor says airily. "Go on."

Fred frowns for a moment. "That's it. Can I help you otherwise?"

"No," the Doctor says sadly. "Because do you see, this Shed shouldn't be here, and this … Jelly Baby thing," he waggles a hand in a very Fred sort of way, "sounds … eh," he zones out for a minute, "nice, but I've _never heard of it_. And I would have heard of it, because I _like_ jelly babies." He stares at Fred, then looks away, focusing on a spot on the wall.

Fred stares back for a moment, then uneasily moves away to serve another customer. It takes eighteen minutes and thirty-three seconds exactly, of the Doctor staring moodily at the wall and Fred avoiding him, before the tension is broken.

The first hint the Doctor gets is when the entire laughing, jostling congregation around him suddenly goes quiet, except for a massed scraping of chairs as people stand up. He turns.

The cause is Rina. Well, Rina and someone else. The 'someone else' is a young man carrying a briefcase, wearing his hair over one eye, frameless glasses, navy blue and black, and an expression of bravely muted intense pain. He appears to be hopping on one foot, for lack of the other.

Everyone seems to be standing to attention. The Doctor senses he's in the presence of some sort of authority figure, but doesn't rise. After all, he himself is not involved here. Yet.

"At ease," the young man says; conversation begins again, slightly subdued, and he hops through the crowd with Rina's aid, falling heavily onto a bar stool next to the Doctor as the crowd returns to its normal volume.

"Bugger," the young man says eloquently, in a broad Australian accent, not looking at him for the moment. "I've never had that particular dubious pleasure before–"

"Which one?" the Doctor asks.

"Car accident," the young man says, glancing down the bar. "Hey, Fred, can you get me a Hahn light please." The beer arrives. "Cheers." He takes a drink. "Rolling on down the highway, autopilot and all, foot up on the dashboard, reading _Harry Potter_ again …" The Doctor's ears perk up for a moment at the anachronism, but the young fellow rolls on, oblivious, "I swear that tree wasn't there before. Your health, sir."

He raises his beer in the Doctor's direction, and has occasion to glance at him – and freezes, staring like he's seen a ghost.

The Doctor stares back.

Finally, the young man forces his gaze away, and stares at the bar. "And what did you say your name was?" he mutters.

"John Smith," the Doctor answers cautiously. There's no way anybody here has guessed who he is this early in the piece. "Why?"

The young man looks back at him with a shellshocked stare. "No reason," he says, and after a moment's pause, offers his hand. The Doctor shakes, and the young fellow says quietly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Smith."

"Doctor Smith, actually," the Doctor says, aware he's still treading on uncertain ground.

"Interesting," the young man says, beginning to regain something of his earlier relaxed manner. "I, also, am a doctor."

Despite the inexplicable moment of shock, the Doctor believes he's still safe enough to ask, "A doctor of what?"

"Everything," the young man says, and leans towards him.

_A doctor of everything? Where have I heard _that_ before?_

In a mixed tone of conspiracy and confession, the young man says, "I'm _the_ Doctor. The one, the only and the best."

And it's the Doctor's turn to stare.


	9. Chapter 9

The Doctor has seen a lot.

Really, he has. A body of thirty-seven years old plays host to a brain which has seen out a full thousand, and a unique biological formula which, before it was systematically exterminated, had survived, and would survive, a million. In his top pocket, there is a sonic screwdriver, engraved with High Gallifreyan a billion years old, built on technology passed down through races born with time itself.

And yet, in all his years, he has never seen this man before.

Taking that into account, it's quite something that when he speaks, it's articulate and confident, if a little questioning. "The Doctor, hm? Doctor … who, exactly?"

"Well, exactly," the other Doctor (?) chuckles. "Doctor who? But no. Just _the_ Doctor." He waves a hand. "People have called me other things, but I call myself the Doctor. I'm sorry, Doctor Smith, I must seem so egotistic."

"No, no," the Doctor says slowly, gazing at him for a few seconds. Then he blinks, and his usual smile jumps back into place. "So, Doctor, what is it you do around here?"

"Oh," the other waves a hand, "I'm a theorist, you could say. Just a dabbler in physics. It's fun juggling so many variables," he says. "Alpha, beta, gamma, qoppa …"

_Qoppa. Now that one has a meaning._ "Exotic energy?" the Doctor prompts.

The other smiles distantly. "Yes. Yes, you might say that. Quite exotic indeed." Some sense of immediacy grasps him and he comes back to earth. "It's brilliant stuff, Doctor Smith. Look," he says, reaching into his shirt. The Doctor avoids tensing, but the other one simply pulls out a piece of vaguely aged paper, tied with string, obviously folded and refolded many times.

"This is the kind of calibre we're working at," he explains proudly. "Have a look."

The Doctor unties the string and unfolds the paper, which turns out to be a document dated three years ago, local time. It seems to be a mimeograph of a piece of paper torn from a binder, itself stamped [classified], and it details an extremely complicated and incomplete piece of theory in very small font.

Which, of course, is child's play to the Doctor.

Because he recognises the structure of the problem. A few variables and paragraphs have been reworded and changed, but the overarching problem remains the same, and he's had occasion to solve it once before, many years ago. Something troubles him … but despite that, this should be fun.

He pulls a pencil from inside his coat. The other one looks slightly alarmed, but at the Doctor's query: "Do you mind?" the other Doctor simply nods mutely.

So the Doctor begins to annotate, reword, retheorise, tie up and solve, assuming a few of these variables and those figures, in the slightly messy printing he uses for these kinds of things. One minute and eighteen seconds later, the problem is solved, and he turns it around and hands it back to the other, who now appears more than slightly alarmed.

"You know," he says after a moment, and seems to hesitate, "you know, that's a problem that your standard Nobel laureate in physics typically takes several hours to solve." He thumbs over his shoulder. "Professor Ratzenberger would know."

The Doctor shrugs. "Oh well, I must have got lucky."

"Lucky," the other murmurs, staring at him. "Yes. Yes, perhaps. Anyway, Doctor Smith," he says, and interrupts himself to call, "I'm going to need someone's help, sorry," – "anyway, Doctor Smith, it has been an absolute pleasure. It's really been marvellous," he says hurriedly, pulling a coat around his shoulders that wasn't there before. "But I have to go."

"So soon?" the Doctor says, a little taken aback.

"Mm," the other mutters out of his thick black bundle, "so soon." Rina walks up to assist him, and the two of them manage to wobble out of the bar, but not before the departing man throws a wondering gaze back at the one at the bar.

The one at the bar has already turned away, troubled.

The problem with that problem, as it were, was that the Doctor recognised it. He's not too familiar with the exotic energy mathematics of twenty-third-century Earth, but he is familiar with the ancient texts of the Academy, having had occasion to read them and reread them many times over.

That problem is very uniquely Gallifreyan. It certainly backs up this Doctor's claim to Doctorhood, but it raises two much more troubling problems in turn.

Why will the Doctor decide to task humans with solving a problem whose answer they cannot possibly be prepared for?

And, as a future incarnation, why will he be so surprised when he himself solves it?


End file.
